


His Soul in Ink

by luciferinasundaysuit



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-03
Updated: 2012-03-03
Packaged: 2017-11-01 01:16:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/350368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luciferinasundaysuit/pseuds/luciferinasundaysuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn't mind being Brad's canvas or notepad or whatever. In his sleepy state, he registers the feeling of the felt-tip against his skin as oddly pleasant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Soul in Ink

Nate is lying on the bed, eyes closed, after half-hazardly throwing his clothes on the floor. Today had fucking sucked. He'd gotten his ass handed to him in his international policy class because somebody had distracted him from his reading by walking around the house in worn-out jeans and dog tags. He's exhausted, and he wants to go to sleep and not wake up for about a decade.

He's right on the edges of sleep when he feels the bed dip down beside him. Brad's home. Nate can feel his body heat next to him. Sleeping for a decade may not happen after all. Brad's fingers ghost along his ribcage, causing Nate to open his eyes and looks up.

"Brad. Sleep now. Sex later."

"I don't always want sex."

"Yes, you do."

"No, I always want your body. There's a slight difference."

"Semantics, Brad. Don't deprive a poor, over-worked grad student of his precious sleep, even if he is lying naked in your bed."

"Go ahead and sleep, then. I'm not stopping you."

"Bullshit."

Nate closes his eyes again anyway. He can feel Brad moving, but that's not his concern right now. If Brad wants to involve him in whatever he's up to, he'll let him know.

After a few minutes, he smells an acrid, chemical smell from somewhere outside of his semi-conscious haze. Then, something cold presses down on his skin. It takes him about ten seconds to realize that it's a marker. Probably permanent, knowing Brad. What the fuck ever, he'll borrow nail polish remover from Gina Espera when they go over to Poke's for dinner tomorrow.

"Not the face," he mumbles, eyes still closed.

"Wouldn't mark up that face for anything," Brad mutters back.

Fucking teddy-bear encased in concrete, that one.

He doesn't mind being Brad's canvas or notepad or whatever. In his sleepy state, he registers the feeling of the felt-tip against his skin as oddly pleasant.

Drifting in and out of consciousness, he feels bits and pieces of Brad's ministrations. Brad's hand lingering his hip, what feels like writing on his chest, followed by a series of dots, broad stripes on his side, swirling on his stomach. By the time Brad gets to his arms, he's lost track.

He feels a nudge, so he rolls over, and Brad murmers his thanks. Brad continues using him as paper while he drifts closer and closer to sleep. Finally, he feels a kiss pressed to the nape of his neck, and then Brad is gone.

When Nate wakes up, it's dark outside. He can smell something with tomato cooking, and his mouth starts to water. God, Brad's an amazing cook. On more than one occasion, Nate has followed through with his urge to call Brad's grandmother and thank her for her recipes. She always tells him how much better she likes him than "that awful girl."

Now, Nate stands up, stretches. There's ink everywhere. In front of the bathroom mirror, he does a mental survey of the ink he can see.

His collar bone says "lick me." He snorts at that. Brad definitely will.

The dots he felt turn out to be the chain of dog tags - Brad's dog tags. If he's honest with himself, being branded as Brad's turns him the fuck on.

Broad lines streak across his ribs. Brad had drawn the left side of his ribcage, and then drawn the word "tongue" parallel to it. That actually looks...cool, for lack of a more sophisticated word.

A small map adorns his stomach. Muwaffaqiyah. He knows the stunt he pulled scared the hell out of Brad, but he can't believe that he still remembers the damn map. His heart clenches a little at that.

The word he felt on his chest is located just over his heart: "Mine." He feels a rush of both affection and lust. Damn right it's Brad's.

His right wrist is covered by cross-hairs, directly on top of his pulse point. At Mathilda, he and Brad had had a discussion about riflery being the life of the Corps. He's surprised that Brad remembers.

When he looks at his left hip, he knows why he felt Brad linger there. The black outline of his hand stands out against Nate's pale skin. Fuck, that makes Nate hot, seeing the mark of Brad's touch.

A circle surrounds the scar on his right thigh. He got it somewhere in Iraq; no one can remember where exactly. The skin next to it says "War brings scars." Benjamin Franklin, if Nate remembers correctly. The random knowledge in Brad's head always astounds him.

Song lyrics look up from Nate's left forearm. "When I'm with you I come alive." Well, fuck if Brad didn't find Air Supply lyrics to perfectly summarize their entire relationship.

As he turns around to survey his back, he grabs Brad's shaving mirror, turning it so he can see what Brad wrote there.

Between his shoulder blades, Brad had written Semper Fidelis. A shiver goes through Nate at that. Those are the words Brad and Nate live by, in every aspect of their life.

Finally, huge blocky letters that say "He's lucky" dominate the rest of Nate's back. Below the, an arrow points to what would be Brad's side of the bed if Nate was lying on his stomach.

Son of a bitch.

Leave it to Brad to lay his soul bare while Nate's sleeping.

Nate takes a few deep breaths, then turns to head to the kitchen. Dinner can wait. Right now, he's going to show Brad that he knows that Nate is, in fact, the lucky one.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the prompt "drawing on the skin" at the Generation Kill Anonymous Kink Meme.


End file.
